The
thrashing of the dream communicated into wakeful screaming, and when
I came to myself I heard steps coming up the hall at a dead run. I
was afraid I would be cut to pieces, or shot with one of those...

“Are you
all right?” yelled an anguished voice. It was the voice of the
sacrifice calling faintly, that person who had died unmourned and
unmissed. She had come back to haunt me.

Dim echoes
in my minds of the chants, the suffocating datramonium fumes, the
murdering...

“Augh!”
I shrieked. “Help! They want to kill us all!”

“Now who
is this they?” asked the voice of seeming reason.

“The
witches!” I screamed. “They went hunting, and killed dozens
because of their inclination of the moment.”

“So?”
squalled another voice. “Witches are like that. If you want them
to stop, then find them and... kill... them...”

And some
other voice, this one from another world, rumbled in subaudible tones
that vibrated house, planet, and mind:

“This
is the day of retribution.

There
will be no mercy, no relent, and no tears.

All
who do evil shall sup with Brimstone.”

My eyes
then jerked open, much as if I had been poisoned with datramonium,
and two grim light-bearing phantasms stood above me as if guardian
sentinels. Their sheer whitish draperies flowed in a high and mighty
wind, even as if I was blowing on them from the ground, and both of
them...

They looked
ridiculous, and I yelled with laughter.

“Now what
is so funny?” asked the disembodied voice of Hans. “This is not
funny, as I think you must have something coming on you. Now drink
this.”

I was an
obedient child, and drank. The sense of sleepiness that accrued
thereafter was as swift and as potent as a weighty cudgel, and I
resumed sleeping to awaken to a thick and reluctantly-lit scene of
gloom and familiar surroundings.

I felt my
bed, and it was not the hard cold stone of the night-dream's altar;
and my hands were not tied to the ringbolts. I stood up, and I was
not poisoned with datramonium.

I had been
dosed with something, though, as the room had mobile walls and
changing corners, and when I went downstairs to use the privy, I
wasn't completely there. As I went, however, I wondered more than a
little:

“Am I in
a privy? Or am I in a powder mill?”

I looked at
the edifice before me, and wondered for a moment if the huge
stoneware crock was a nitrator. If it was, I needed to add
glycerin to it, so as to make the stuff of dreams, and perhaps,
nightmares. Faintly, the thought of the worse headache I had ever
had crossed my mind, and as I wobbled out of the powder mill – I
had decided, it was a powder mill, and I was making explosives
in it – I nearly ran into a ghost.

The ghost
was not that of my vaporized cousin who had vanished in the last
explosion of the place, as that person was not female – and this
being was.

“Now what
happened to you last night?” asked Anna.

“I think
I had a bad dream,” I said. “Is there a big town to the south
and east about twenty miles in a straight line?”

“That
would be the kingdom house,” said Anna. “Why?”

“Is there
a really big building there,” I asked, “one with four or five
above-ground stories, one or perhaps two below ground level, with a
lot of really wide stairs, wide halls, and a lot of places to get
lost in?”

Anna looked
at me with a degree of interest that I had seldom seen, and she
asked, “that sounds like the kingdom house proper. What happened
there?”

“Th-they
caught someone in th-the city to the south and east, in Maarlaan,
and p-poked her w-with needles, then took her...”

“If you
ever go to the kingdom house,” said Anna in a knowing tone,
“you do not want to go anywhere near Maarlaan if it is dark.
There might only be three drink-houses that sell services in that
town, but two of them are on that street, and the third is just off
it, and all of them are near one another. Now what happened to this
woman?”

“They
took her into the deep-cellar of that big building, through this long
secret passage,” I said, “and into this black room filled with
white smoke, a big black stone altar, and th-they sacrificed her.”

“I wonder
if you had an ordinary dream,” said Anna. “You were shaking and
sweating, so we put a whole mug of beer in you, along with three
drops of the widow's tincture.”

I had more
than a little difficulty trying to eat mobile bread and drink from a
frisky mug at breakfast, and as I looked around, the wiggly walls and
ghostly aspect of the room made for wonderment – at least, in some
aspect.

“I f-feel
impaired,” I said plaintively. “What happened to me?”

“I think
you are sick,” said Anna, “as you should have had an easier time
sleeping, and you look as if you got into the bull formula.”

I felt my
head, then said, “why, do I have horns like those people
wore on their hunting clothing?”

Hans looked
at me, even as his face seemed to wiggle atrociously, and said, “now
what is this of hunting clothing?”

“There
were witches,” I said, “and I saw everything they do when they
get ready to get someone to sacrifice, from the time they start
getting ready in the late morning until the evening of the day
after.”

“Now this
is strange,” said Hans, “as when I woke up, I could hear someone
speaking faintly, and their talk was strange.”

“What was
it?” I asked.

“I didn't
just hear this talk,” said Hans, “but I saw that inscription on
that lantern, and with each of those little marks, there was a sound,
and it repeated over and over.”

“H-Hans,
those people chanted that curse constantly,” I squeaked, “and
from the time they corked themselves until the time they had finished
initiating Judas, they did not stop chanting, as to stop doing so
would name them rebels against the will of Brimstone.”

“I had
think you had best stay home today,” said Hans. “That dream you
had sounds important, and we had best hear of it. I think we should
have heard it then, but...”

“But
what?” I asked.

“You
needed to sleep,” said Anna; her saying 'sleep' meant 'be
quiet', “so I dosed you, and you went back to sleep. Then the
two of us could go to bed like we wanted to. I think you need to go
back to bed, as your talk bothers me...”

I opened my
eyes, and found myself still standing in the privy. I had just
finished going, and I shook my head so as to dislodge the effects of
both dream and drug. I turned, cleaned my hands, and came out to see
Anna.

“No, I am
not all right,” I spat. “Did you dose me so as to silence
me, because I had a nightmare and screamed?”

“I
thought about that for a moment,” said Anna, “but by the time...”

Anna
abruptly ceased speaking, then said, “why did you think I wanted to
silence you?”

“First, I
had a dream about a pack of thirteen witches,” I said, “and when
Hans called them murderous, he was saying they were wonderful. One
wretch killed an entire family of seven because he wanted to baptize
his sword in blood. He needed no more reason than that.”

“When was
this?” asked Anna.

“During
the time of the dream,” I said, “and that thing was as bad as any
dream I've ever had. I'm not certain if that one with the bugs was
worse.”

“Bugs?”
asked Anna. “You don't handle smells well, so I can see how that
might be bad.”

“Those
bugs didn't smell,” I said. “They ate away my legs, and I
had to keep forcing out the...”

I stopped,
then shook my head. I wanted to sit down.

Once I had
done so, and drained two mugs of water, I felt better. Anna seemed
to be busying herself around the kitchen, and when I looked out the
front window of the parlor, the conditions seemed to match perfectly
what I had seen in the beginning of the dream: night and fog, and the
round of them...

“No, that
stuff was not grog,” I thought. “That stuff had to be the
twin of that vile stuff I found on the way up that volcano, and it
wasn't much less than aquavit for strength.”

A minute
later, I thought to speak: “they killed her in the deep-cellar,
down deep in the king's house, all thirteen of them, and Judas made
his bones and got his first ink-marking.”

“What is
this?” asked Hans, as he suddenly 'appeared'. “You were saying
things last night, and I told Anna to not dose you.”

“Did she
wish to silence me?” I asked. “Because of her...”

Anna looked
at me, then said, “I think so. I was angry with you for disturbing
my rest, and I wanted to fill you full of beer so you would not
scream so much.”

“Then you
do silence people that way,” I muttered. “Will you pour
tubes of datramonium up my nose and then put a Desmond to me, like
that poor girl in that dream? Is your inclination of the moment the
death of the one you name disgraced?”

“That was
why I told Anna she must not dose you,” said Hans. “You were not
wanting to cause her trouble, even though she was talking as though
you were.”

“Were you
having a dream also?” I asked.

Anna shook
her head, then said, “if that was a dream, it was the strangest one
ever. I was in this house near Maarlaan...”

“That is
a bad place,” said Hans. “It might not be the second kingdom
house for bad, but it is bad enough.”

“And some
wretch left a body with its guts all over the street and with its
head by its side,” said Anna. “That was just the beginning of my
bad day, as when I went to where I had those women I owned and ruled
with gun and knife, one of them was gone, and...”

Anna
stopped, then said, “what am I saying?”

“I was
not the only one who was dreaming,” it seems, “and I'm not the
only person to act while dreaming, either. I only fully woke up just
before I came out of the privy this morning, and before that, I had
first the one dream, then one where I woke up after having been dosed
with beer and the widow's tincture, and...”

Anna
abruptly collapsed, with her head on the table. I jumped up and felt
her pulse, then picked her up and took her to the couch. She awoke
what seemed seconds later.

“That was
what I dosed those women with in the dream,” said Anna, “and I
thought you were just another one of them when I woke up.”

“Were you
a madam in this dream?” I asked.

“What did
you call me?” asked Anna. She had sat up, and was now rubbing her
head as if inclined toward a headache. I was glad Hans had plenty of
fever-tree powder.

“You
spoke of those women you, uh, 'owned and ruled with gun and knife',”
I said. “That wasn't all that rare where I came from, and 'madam'
was one of the more well-known terms for such people, at least for
women in that position. The men that did that... Ugh, I do not even
wish to think about that name.”

“Is it a
curse?” asked Hans, as he brought Anna a mug.

“I'm not
sure,” I said, “but if ever a word needed to be made into
one, that name does.”

At
breakfast, however, I thought to ask about explosives, specifically
the container used for blasting oil nitration.

“That
depends on where it is done,” said Hans. “Some places down south
do it in containers that look as if they were stolen from privies up
here.”

“Do they
call them nitrators?” I asked.

“Now
where is it you heard this?” asked Hans.

“I was in
the privy during the end of the second part of that dream, and I
could not make up my mind if I was in a privy or a powder mill and
standing in front of a nitrator,” I said. “I finally figured out
it was a nitrator about the time I finished.”

I staggered
to work shortly afterward, but once there, I could tell the effects
of that evil dream had told on me. I was unable to concentrate at
first, and only about the time of the morning guzzle did I trust
myself around the grinding wheel to work on the ax-blades. I was
glad they were forged so close to size, as I barely needed to grind
on them before smoothing them up with a succession of files and then
hardening them.

The
ax-heads went over to the carpenters before lunch, and by the usual
quitting time, I was absolutely drained. I felt as if
cross-eyed, and needed to rest badly, so much so that I was wondering
about the effects of the widow's tincture, and I was sitting down and
staring dumbly at the opposite wall when one of the carpenters
suddenly came in.

I didn't
bother looking at the 'handled' axes much, and I dug out my money
pouch and handed it to him, muttering as I did, “that dream was
awful.”

“What
dream was this?” he said. I could hear the clink of coins above
and to my left.

“That one
last night,” I said. “Witches, ugh! Those people are horrible.”

“At least
you have some way to put powder and lead in them should they show,”
he said. “I hope you can make more of these soon. Are these two
for testing?”

“I'm not
sure yet,” I said. “I think so.”

I then took
out the revolver, and looked at it, then put it away. The familiar
appearance was a bit much to endure, especially as several of that
group had had similar – though much better-made – weapons.
What Hieronymus had had wasn't the worst piece, but it was far
from the best, at least originally. I'd improved its function to no
small degree. I had not helped its looks much by parts
replacement, and it now looked worse than when I first got it.

“This
thing needs to have its handles smoothed up and fitted right,” I
thought. “Perhaps new ones of better wood?”

I stumbled
north when the others walked south, and my grim ax-bearing visage,
complete with the usual bag of tricks, made me wonder if I'd become a
witch myself by the time I came in the door. I laid both axes on the
table, then fetched my clothing and bathed. I was more than a little
surprised when I came out clean, refreshed, and closer to being in my
right mind. The axes were leaning head-down in the corner behind the
table.

“So now
you know about what witches do in those places they have,” said
Hans. “I have been asking some, and what you said has helped a lot
of people know about those things and what they do.”

“But what
did I say?” I asked.

“You
spoke of what they were doing, almost as if you were there watching
them close,” said Hans. “There was a lot I did not know before
last night.”

“Twenty-th-three
people before they k-killed that g-g-girl?” I spluttered, “J-just
because they f-felt like killing people?”

“I knew
those things were murderous, but not like that,” said Hans, “and
they have a room like that up on the hill? I thought they put those
rooms out in the middle of nowhere.”

“And
r-rich people doing all of that stuff?” I gasped.

“That is
not good,” said Hans. “I heard all of that, and if they are in
that place, that is bad.”

“Why?”
I said. “That is a good hiding place. No one would think
to look there.”

“I know
that,” said Hans. “That place you described sounds like the
king's house proper, and if he finds them, he will want to light them
on fire himself.”

“Uh, 'off
with their heads'?” I asked.

“That and
cut them up good,” said Hans. “He might even outlaw them to the
ultimate.”

“What
does that mean?” I asked.

“They,
their families, all that know them, their animals, their things, all
of it goes on burn-piles,” said Hans, “and their homes and lands
are burnt to the ground afterward.”

Here, Hans
paused, then said, “and I think we might go to the Public House,
too. I think you need a good meal.”

“Yes,
Hans,” said Anna. “I do need a good meal, and I feel inclined
toward a pie.”

“Marmot
pies?” I gasped. I had almost said 'Possum'.

“No, not
those,” said Anna. “Someone brought in a smaller elk, and elk
tastes good in pie, especially with a lot of pepper.”

'Pepper
pie' was what Anna wished, and when I had a plate of the steaming hot
concoction, I had a very good idea as to why she was so
inclined. Pepper pie was spicy, yet not burn-the-mouth hot, with
bits of potato, carrot, and what might have been turnips hiding here
and there amid gravy-dripping chopped meat, and all of this hidden
beneath a thin flaky crust on the top. The brownish color of the
crust, however, seemed something of a marvel.

“What is
in that crust?” I asked.

“There is
some rye,” said Anna, “and perhaps cornmeal, but a certain amount
of the grain comes from points south. The lower pie-crust is rolled
to half the thickness of a finger, then cooked in a slow steamy oven
while basted with oil until it is part-cooked, and then the pie is
filled and the top put on. They usually need slow cooking, which is
why I came down and spoke of it about lunchtime.”

“Lunchtime?”
I asked.

“Pies are
more common during the cold months,” said Hans, “and people eat
them more then, too. So, if one wants to be certain of having a pie
for a meal, even during this time of year, then one must speak of the
thing earlier in the day so they have it ready to dish up when you
come for it.”

“And the
greens and things?” I asked.

“Those
are quick and easy, if the stove is ready and they are chopped
already,” said Anna. “I think they keep a steaming pot or two
back there during mealtimes so as to cook greens.”

After
devouring the pie – I had no idea how those two men managed to eat
one of the things each, not when a similar-sized example glutted
the three of us – we left for home. The night was just beginning
to truly become 'dark' when we arrived, and I did not wish to stay up
and work much.

“How does
the widow's tincture feel?” I asked. Again, I felt reminded of it.
I wondered if I was turning into a drug addict.

“Why, do
you want some?” asked Hans. “I can get you some of it.”

“It was
making everything look weird,” I said. “Anna said she put three
drops in a mug of beer, and got the whole thing down me somehow...”

Hans had
all he could do to not laugh, and I shook my head before spluttering,
“what is so funny?”

“We have
never managed to get anywhere close to that much in you, as you go to
sleep long before that,” said Hans.

“That
tube?” I asked.

“I doubt
she would tube you unless you looked as if you were in bad trouble,”
said Hans.

“You
might try a drop or two of that tincture, though,” said Anna.
“That might well help some.”

“How much
is that much?” I asked.

“Three
drops is what I would give a baby,” said Anna. “Given how
sensitive you are, three drops might well affect you as if you were
normal and had a tube of the bull formula by mistake.”

With great
misgivings, I tried drinking a small cup of water with two drops of
the tincture in it. I barely got two swallows down before I began
gagging, then choked, “th-that stuff is horrible!”

“Yes,
that is like most medicine,” said Hans. “Try to drink more of
that stuff.”

I managed
perhaps two thirds of the container before I began retching – and
then, I began moaning. I had drank poison by mistake, and now I
would be captured and then sacrificed by the witches.

“No, that
is not true,” said Anna. “I've had some myself more than a few
times, and I usually need a good deal more than what you had.”

“But...”

As if to
disabuse me of the notion of poison, Anna consumed the rest of
the liquid, then said, “now if it was poison, would I drink
it?”

And, as if
the stuff wanted to disabuse Anna of its flavor, she began
retching.

“That
stuff tastes worse when mixed with water than when straight from the
dropping tube,” she gasped. “How could you stand it?”

“It
wasn't easy, dear,” I said, as I began yawning.

“I think
you had best go to bed,” said Hans. “That stuff helps when you
have lots of bad dreams.”

That night,
I had none, even if I awoke during the night to visit the privy.
This time, I knew it was a privy, even more so than normally,
and when I lay down in bed, I felt unusually 'sane' and collected, as
well as unusually inclined to sleep. I awoke feeling better in the
morning, as if I had gotten over the worst of a serious illness, and
was now better.

“If that
stuff is a sleeping agent, it makes anything I've had before seem
worthless,” I thought.

For some
reason, both Hans and Anna felt inclined toward wooding, and when we
went to the west, I wondered if it were just wood we were after. All
three of us wore long linen cloaks with the hoods up, and when we
came to a familiar woodlot, we stopped briefly to load up the buggy
partly. Here, the axes were in use, and both Hans and Anna commented
about them.

“These
are as good of axes as one could ask for,” said Hans. “They have
that one type of handle, and they are sharp enough to almost cut of
themselves.”

“They are
not the usual type of ax, Hans,” said Anna. “They are about a
handbreadth shorter for the handle, and a bit lighter for the bit,
and a good deal easier to use.”

“And that
one I made first?” I asked.

“That one
you keep in your things,” said Hans. “That is a good one for
fast travel, when one must watch the weight.”

“Trek-ax?”
I asked.

“I think
it would work good for that,” said Hans, “though with that
heating lamp, I would sooner take a small jug of aquavit and that
stand. You might want to make more of those things.”

“Things?”
I asked.

“Those
lamps and stands,” said Anna. “I think Hans wishes to reserve
one for downstairs, and I know I would like one for meals. That one
you made is just right for the quicker soups, especially for just two
people.”

“Did you
try either of those, uh, mess-kits?” I asked.

“Those
are not messy,” said Anna. “That small fryer works good
if one wishes to cook small meals, though what kind of meals is a
mystery. Most fryers are quite a bit bigger.”

“Those
things are not found in most homes,” said Hans. “They are found
at Public Houses. That one you found is the smallest one I've seen,
outside of what is in those two things.”

Here, Hans
paused, then said, “now why did you call those things what you
did?”

“There
were things like them where I came from called 'mess-kits',” I
said. “At least, they were somewhat like them. They made
passable utensils, even if they were almost worthless for actual
cooking. Those I made should work better, and I hope to test them
before making more.”

After a
part-load of wood – there was room still for myself, a jug, a
wicker basket, and two sacks – Hans resumed driving west. I
suspected he was going to that one second-hand store, only this time,
he wasn't planning much of a clandestine nature.

“Either
that, or whatever it is can be hidden readily on the person,” I
thought. “Some of those vials were small enough for size to allow
it, even if their weight was otherwise.”

“When do
children usually show the most?” I asked.

“They
usually arrive just before the start of harvest mostly,” said Anna,
“though they come all during the year. We usually go on trek
during late spring, as they are scarcest then.”

Anna
paused, then said, “and for some reason, there has been a lull in
them showing this year.”

“And
trek-time?” I asked.

That is
best once the weather is good and the planting is done,” said Hans.
“Now how is he going to help when it is time for children?”

“You do
not help much,” said Anna, “nor do you need to. Still, I have no
idea as to what to do with a person who is likely to be worse off
than both parents combined after a baby arrives.”

“I had
best make up a lot of the widow's tincture, then,” said Hans. “I
hope I can get more of the roots for that stuff.”

“Does
that tincture, er, root, have a special name?” I asked.

“That
stuff is called Valoris root,” said Hans, “and where that
name comes from is a mystery, same as with a lot of chemicals and
things.”

“Where do
you get those roots?” I asked.

“They do
not grow up here,” said Hans. “There are places that raise herbs
in the fourth kingdom, and that is one of the better-known ones. I
usually get a big sack of the stuff when I go down there, then
process them once I get home. The roots do not keep that good, even
if the tinctures made from them do.”

“Does
this one store carry those?” I asked.

“Yes,
which is one of the reasons we are going there,” said Hans. “They
just got a delivery from down south, and you might want to look over
that place better than the last time.”

By the time
we had arrived at the store in question, however, I knew what else I
needed to make: a small grist-mill. Grinding corn demanded one, and
Paul's setup sounded like trouble to both make and use.

“When
making corn-mash,” I asked, “does one need to sprout all of it?”

“It is
best that way,” said Hans. “It is much weaker for fermenting
than barley, so one must use corn-yeast.”

“And
cooking?” I asked.

“It needs
that too,” said Hans, “though it is much simpler than with beer.
With corn, one sprouts it, grinds it, puts it in the mash tub, and
then adds warm water that has been boiled good, then stirs it for a
while. Once the mash has cooled, one adds the yeast.”

Hans
paused, then said, “and I will want to know when you are nearly
done with that distillery, as I have everything ready except for a
grinder. Paul's is a bit far to grind that stuff up, and his grinder
needs a lot of work.”

“I need
to make the grinder first,” I said. “It should be a
decent break from that gun.”

“Is this
for that one man?” asked Anna.

“I need
one to practice on first,” I said. “His isn't like the
ones common up here, and besides, I need one for, uh, hunting.”

“And what
I will hunt with it is a mystery,” I thought. “The deer
have all gone into hibernation, it seems.”

Once
at the store, however, I followed the others in after Hans cut the
ice out of the watering trough and pumped fresh water for the horses.
The noise of the pump – a 'hoogh-roagh' sound – was
enough to make me cringe and my teeth wish to hide. I actually felt
them with my hands as Hans finished.

“What is
your trouble?” asked Hans. “I hope you do not need to see a
tooth-puller, as those people are worthless for helping.”

“Th-that
noise,” I squeaked. “It's awful.”

“That
pump is going bad,” said Hans. “It needs some work, and it might
come to the shop once it thaws out. No one pulls pumps in the
winter.”

Inside, I
roamed the aisles of the 'ostensible' portion of the store, as did
Hans and Anna. I had an intimation that part of what was being
purchased was gifts, or so I thought when Anna nearly yelled.

“What is
it?” I asked as I came to where she was standing.

“I found
something you need,” she said.

I came to
where Anna was standing, and when I arrived, I was surprised to find
her holding an eight-sided candle lantern.

“These
are the good ones,” she said. “Hendrik has several, and they
give more light than anything else that uses candles.”

“Hendrik?”
I asked.

“The
king,” said Anna. “I've seen him a number of times, and he has
these things in his office.”

“What are
they doing here, though?” I asked.

“I think
this one might have been a student's lantern,” said Anna. “I've
seen students up here with them.”

“Would
they sell their lanterns?” I gasped.

“Some of
them might,” said Anna. “I've suspected that more than a few of
them bring things from school into this area and then sell them.
School isn't cheap, and not all families can provide all their
children's needs while at school.”

Anna
paused, then said, “and I know they buy things up here and take
them to school to sell there.”

“What
would those be?” I asked.

“Powder
and lead, for one thing,” said Hans. “The fourth kingdom's
powder is decent, but there are places up here that make better,
especially this one man.”

“What
would they use powder and lead for?” I asked.

“Most of
those schools do chemistry,” said Hans, “but all of them have
trouble with vermin, if rumors are true.”

The lower
section, however, had yet more treasures, for as we went down the
stairs, I could smell something especially delightful, and once we
were among the aisles, I began moving toward the source of the odor.
The others seemed to be doing business at the area where the counter
was.

“I must
find the source of that smell,” I thought. “It smells
wonderful.”

I soon
localized it to an area near the back, and when I came to the end of
an aisle, I found a sizable wooden box. I opened its lid, and nearly
fell on the floor with the intensity of the odor. It was that of
flowers of some kind, though what kind they were seemed a mystery. I
could recall their possible appearance, but for the life of me, I
could not recall their names.

The box was
filled with rectangular tins, and they were emitting the aroma in
question.

I removed
one, and gently stroked it. As I did, I thought, “who needs a Jinn
when such delightful smells are to be had,” and as I slowly walked
toward the counter, I felt transported, much as if overwhelmed with
pleasure – at least until Anna looked at me as if I were out of my
mind.

“Now
where did you find that tin?” she asked.

“There
was, this, uh, box back there,” I said, “and it has a number of
them in it.”

I then
proffered Anna the tin. It was a priceless gift, in my estimation.

She smelled
it, then said, “it does smell nice. What is it?” I had no idea,
even if the owner of the store did.

“That is
some special soap,” she said, “and I got that box in trade for a
very unusual anvil.”

“Yes, and
what was this anvil like?” asked Hans. He'd gotten three 'lumps'
of lead and two of tin, as well as a third one of what might have
been that one hardening metal. I suspected the last tended to be
rare in its uncombined form.

“It was
quite old,” she said, “and it needed lengthy cleaning so as to
remove the dirt from it. I was glad to be rid of it, and he was
almost as glad to get it.”

“Did this
anvil look, uh, unusual?” I asked.

“The
front part was longer and thinner than is common,” she said, “and
the body seemed unusually thin. It might have once been painted, as
there were traces of what might have been paint on it, as well as
some strange markings. I'd never seen those before.”

“S-strange
markings?” I asked. “What did they look like?'

“They
weren't what some call witch-markings,” she said, “as I've seen
those before, and I won't let anything having them inside here.
Those things marked with them either tend to be dangerous,
badly-made, or only a few people want them – and I want nothing to
do with that type of person, no matter how much money they are
willing to pay.”

“Black-cloth?”
I asked.

“That,
sharp-toed boots, bad odors, and worse tempers,” she said, “and
that goes double for what those people travel in, especially some of
them.”

“Yes, and
why is that?” asked Hans.

“More
than once they've had mules drawing those things,” she said, “and
I do not like mules.”

I did not
have sufficient funds on hand to purchase both tin and lantern, hence
I put a payment on the tin and bought the lantern entirely.

“That is
common with expensive things,” said Hans, “so I would guess you
can come back next rest-day and pay the rest for that thing. Neither
of us have that much money to spare with us.”

The
remainder of the weekend went for gun parts of one type or another,
and here, I was carving wood for patterns. I drew several special
shapes of small knives that I suspected would help, with each such
drawing going in the student's ledger.

The lantern
was all Anna had said of it, for it seemed to both enlarge and
brighten the flame of the candles I used to an astonishing degree.
It also eliminated their smoke completely, and I wondered how
hard it would be to copy, so much so that I looked at it before
bedtime Sunday night once it had cooled.

“There
seems little different about this lantern beyond its shape and its
dimensions,” I thought, “and, perhaps, its glass pieces. The
usual ones seem to have a measure of frosting and more than a little
unevenness, unlike this type.”

However,
upon comparing it with the other lanterns I had, I began to see
differences, even in the smaller ones that had come with my tools.

“This
thing flows air up into the flame,” I asked, “unlike those
others. I wonder if I can duplicate it?”

The next
day at work, I went to the carpenters with a slate covered with
details regarding the grist-mill patterns. I suspected they would be
faster for woodworking than I was, and my guess proved correct: I was
presented with the needed pieces by lunchtime. Again, I handed them
my money pouch, only this time, I needed to answer questions as well
as pay for the pattern.

“This is
to be a small grist-mill,” I said.

“For
what?” asked the carpenter. I could tell I was drawing an
audience.

“Mostly
for corn,” I said. “This one isn't really changeable, so it
might not work for barley.”

“I would
not be too certain of that,” he said. “If it works for the one,
it will work well for the other, and chopping barley, especially if
you consume your share of beer, takes a lot of time.”

“Unless
you have a good knife, that is,” said Gelbhaar. “Now how does
that one work?”

I showed
him the patterns, then said, “this part here takes the rollers,
just like for that bar-mill, and then these are bearing-caps. The
gears will go on that side there, and I'll need to make a guard for
them so they don't grab fingers. Then, this handle will go on one of
the rollers, and I think I had best make it so it can go on either
side.”

“And that
part there?” asked Gelbhaar, as he pointed to places on the main
casting.

“You
attach it there, and at two other places,” I said. “It might be
smaller than one grinder I've seen, but it's not intended to be a
toy.”

I ran the
castings for the grist-mill after the others had left. With the new
lantern, and the warmth the furnace provided, it was possible to stay
later readily. Here, I tested my new molding tools, and found them
to work passably. I clamped the molds together, being careful to
line up their small pegs and holes, and poured the metal after
skimming the dross. I was glad there was so little.

“And I'd
best think about a few ramming tools,” I thought. “These flasks
are probably a lot smaller than what is normally used.”

After
drawing the things I wanted – I would want them turned tomorrow at
the carpenters, and preferably of hard close-grained wood – I stood
'fire-watch' over the flasks while I began trimming sheet copper to
size for a distillery.

By the time
I knew the castings weren't going to start fires, I had not merely
cut the pieces of copper roughly to size, but I had also rolled the
sidewalls of both the cooker itself and those of the rectifying
column.

“This
thing might not be as big as those I saw at Paul's,” I thought,
“but I doubt it will need three or four runs to make aquavit.”

Once home,
I filed on the first two woodcarving blades, then after dinner, I
resumed filing on them. I could really see their need, as
Black-Cap's trigger guard was a true 'piece of work', unlike what I
had envisioned for my weapon, and I would need not merely special
knives, but better woodcarving chisels beyond the 'common' ones I had
found in my tools and those copies I had made. As I finished first
one knife, then the other, I noted a shadow to my right, and I turned
to see Hans.

I also
nearly fell on the floor.

“Now what
is it you are working on there?” he asked.

“Woodcarving
tools,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who does woodworking for,
uh, muskets?”

“There is
one person I know of,” said Hans, “though I think you will want
more than you have now, unless you want to do most of the work on
it.”

“More
than I have now?” I asked.

“Yes, all
the metal parts,” said Hans. “Then, he might be able to get it
close. I would tell him to not get too close, as I think you would
be better at that part than he is.”

“How
close is 'close'?” I asked. “The width of a wide stripe of
chalk?”

“That is
not close,” said Hans. “Even for where you work and for those
people, that is not close. He might manage within eight to ten lines
if you give him all of the metal parts.”

“No,
Hans,” said Anna. “He would take at least a month to get it that
close. I would have him cut the blank to the common length, and cut
away the most of it, so that it looks like a club. He can do that
fairly quickly.”

“A
month?” I asked. My voice portrayed a degree of
astonishment that was difficult to put into words.

“He
neither works your hours, nor with your energy,” said Anna, “and
he does much less with each hour compared to what I have seen
you do. I've seen how you carve wood, and while how you carve
wood is as strange a thing as I've ever seen, I've seen the results
enough to make me wonder.”

“In what
way?” I asked.

“Those
that carve wood should toss what tools they have and what they
know, and have you teach them,” said Anna. They'd do thrice the
work in half the time, and much better work, too.”

“Yes, if
he could teach them,” said Hans. “They might be like those
people at the shop that way.”

“They do
learn,” I said, “and at least they seem inclined to try, even if
I need to simplify things greatly and go very slowly.”

“I know
that,” said Hans. “That is the usual for teaching, at least for
most.”

“Present
company included,” I thought, “especially for math. Hans might
manage 'three and four is seven' about nine times out of ten. Anna
does passably until the result gets into three digits or involves
carrying numbers, and then she wants to toss the slate and chalk
because she thinks it too hard.”

The next
morning at work, I had questions about the castings I had done the
day before. Their clean nature – the grain of the sand barely
showed – as well as their shapes, garnered no small amount of
questioning, especially from Georg.

“Have you
done this before?” he asked.

“Yes, but
not here,” I said. “I'm really surprised those came out
as good as they did.”

“If I did
not know better,” said Georg, “I would
think you had been apprenticed as a founder in the fourth kingdom.
This is as good as anything I've ever seen.”

I wondered
for a moment about the previous open-faced examples, then thought,
“those weren't 'conventional' castings, so they don't 'count'.”

“How many
times did you pour castings before coming here?” asked Georg.

“A few
times,” I said. “If it was big or complicated, I needed to have
it done – and I'm glad I didn't need to have it done very often.
It tended to be really expensive.”

However,
when I began filing on the parts, I attracted another audience.

“Why is
that bronze behaving like that?” asked Johannes.

“How does
bronze usually behave?” I asked.

“Here,
try this piece,” he said.

I was
handed the guard for a knife, and the first stroke made me grit my
teeth. The hard grainy feeling was utterly unlike what I was working
on, so much so that I spat, “that felt awful. This isn't the same
metal at all. What did they do to that stuff, mix sand and rust with
it in the crucible?”

“These
look to be decent castings,” said Johannes, “but given the
choice, I would melt them in your crucibles as scrap and make those
things here. I tried filing your sprue and that stuff you did is a
lot better.”

The comment
had Georg looking at the parts I was working on, then at the knife
parts that had arrived. He tried filing first the one, then the
other, then began muttering as if he'd taken lessons from Anna. I
wondered when – and if – he'd erupt.

For some
odd reason, he did not, at least in the manner of Anna. Instead, he
said, “they should have just sent us their scrap and called it
rightly, as that is what those things they sent are. I just hope
they can be made good by melting.”

“I'd need
more flasks, then,” I said, “as well as sand, some rammers...”

“Those
flasks you are using are a lot smaller than the usual,” said Georg,
“so I hope you can tell them what you want.”

“I can,”
I said. “I drew up three of them.”

After
showing the carpenters the slate in question – I was catching onto
the tricks of slates in a hurry, and was sawing the inch-thick square
chalk-sticks into quarters with a hacksaw – I left the slate with
them and returned to my castings. I would need to forge up the
rollers, make the hopper, file the bronze gear-blanks, and then fit
the crank.

I had all
of those things nearly done by the time I left for home that evening,
such that I but needed to finish-file and scrape the various pieces,
then put in the bearing shims and fit the thing up. The three
rammers had come within two hours after bringing over the slate.

“I see
that lantern is helping a lot,” said Anna, as she picked it up for
a moment so as to look at it closer, “and so is that oven. Do you
fire it often?”

“Every
day,” I said, “and not just with charcoal, at least, not during
the day. It really helps heat up the shop.”

“That is
good, then,” said Hans as he came upstairs. It was nearly time for
dinner.

By the time
I was ready for bed, the grist-mill was nearly complete, with but
finishing touches needed, chiefly hardening the rollers and screws,
as well complete the handle. I had its spindle already done.

“I wonder
if I can cast a bronze handle?” I thought, as I made ready
for bed.

The
handle proved laughably easy to cast once the carpenters turned the
pattern, and that evening at dinner, I presented the grist-mill to
the others.

“Now how
does this work?” asked Anna.

“One puts
the grain in here,” I said, while indicating the funnel, “and
then turns the crank. It should crush the grain nicely.”

I paused,
then said, “I hope you got the mashing stuff ready, as I'm going to
have that still ready in a few days. Now did you get in touch with
that one man?”

“Yes, I
did,” said Hans. “He would like some good chisels for wood.”

“Did he
give drawings, or provide samples, or speak of what he wanted,” I
asked, “or did he say something like 'several wood chisels, as per
usual'?”

“Now what
is it you are saying?” asked Hans.

“Most
orders are of so few words, and of such general words,
that I have no real idea of what is wanted,” I said. “That
one man said he wanted his musket 'worked over', and that was all
he said – and Black-Cap didn't even do that.”

I paused,
then said, “the usual knife order is 'one knife, as per usual'.”

“I think
he heard about what you do,” said Hans, “and he wants some good
tools. Most people have to make do with what they can get.”

“Or what
the maker feels inclined to make for them,” I muttered.
“That cussed dream spoke about that.”

“Yes, and
what did it say?” asked Hans.

“They
were unthinkingly obedient, as befitting proper slaves,” I
said, “and you could hand them a turnip and tell them it was a
chisel, and they'd believe you enough to smack the thing with a
hammer as if it actually was a chisel.”

The
expression upon the faces of Hans and Anna was unreadable.

“That was
not all, though,” I said. “If you punished them because they
made a mess instead of chips, they'd believe unquestioningly that it
was their fault, just as you had told them, and that strictly because
you had said so.”

I paused
again, then came to the 'punch line'.

“That was
for certain individuals,” I said, “who were heavily
indoctrinated. The scary thing was knowing a lot of people in the
area would function in precisely the same fashion, and for
much the same reasons, and that with no such indoctrination
beyond what they'd heard and seen.”

Hans found
his tongue first, and said, “what does that mean?”

“It means
that most people will ask for a chisel and hope I deign to
give them one, instead of a rotten turnip,” I said, “and if that
chisel is good, bad, or indifferent, they will neither complain as to
its wrongness, nor will they question what I do.”

I paused,
then whimpered, “no, I don't want to be a witch, and witches take
advantage of such people.”

“That is
not true,” said Anna. “If one does bad work, that brings the
mobs running.”

I had no
idea as to how to reconcile the two statements, until Hans said, “I
think I know how it works. What would be called good here would draw
mobs in the fourth kingdom...”

“The-that
dream,” I muttered. “The truth is what the witches say it is,
and most people believe the speech of those over them without
question, even to the point of killing those the witches wish dead
without the slightest hesitation or thought.”

“How can
that be?” asked Anna. “The truth is what it is, and if people
ask no questions...”

“A lot of
people don't,” said Hans. “They just believe what they hear,
especially if someone important says it.”

“Especially
the preacher,” I said. “One of those men was an o-overseer, and
he killed his share that night. He had made a blood-pact, and poured
out his share upon his i-idol.”

“What?”
screeched Anna. “How?”

“Are
preachers told what to speak and how to speak it,” I asked, “as
if they are rebellious stiff-necked fools?”

“I am not
sure if that is the case,” said Hans, “though Maarten has spoken
of how those over him are. He has his share of trouble with them
also.”

Hans had no
real idea as to what the man wanted, and I wasn't that familiar with
wood-chisels beyond the handful that were in my tools, those copies I
had made for my own use, and the half-dozen or so I'd seen at the
carpenters' shop.

“Perhaps
make duplicates of what I have in mind for my use?” I
thought, though a second later, another line of thinking intruded:
“would he use such things? Do they use chisels that
look like awls here?”

The next
day at work, I was mostly busy with the distillery. The bottom –
flat, not rounded, save for a gentle curve to where it joined the
cylindrical portion – went rapidly, and the shapes for both upper
portion and cap also went rapidly. I was glad I could roll those,
and gladder yet I had modified the slip-roller so as to permit doing
so. Its previous adjustments were to accommodate sloppy
manufacturing practices. I had removed most of the 'slop', so I
could now roll obtuse cones of a certain range of sizes.

The
bar-roller's seaming capability made for a very neat seam, and as I
drilled the holes, I knew I hadn't yet gotten an audience. The
drop-hammer was in use, with a steady banging once a second; more
'flats' were being mashed out as well as others being forge-welded
into usable billets; and I suspected someone would later attempt
using the drop-hammer to forge-weld something for a buggy. I'd seen
what looked like buggy parts on Georg's desk that morning.

“And I
hope they forge the pieces using some of that blister steel,” I
thought. “Sandwiching a few pieces of that in those pieces would
really help.”

As a break
from fitting together the pieces of the cooker, I forged out both
awl-blanks and those for 'carving chisels'. The latter were similar
in size, if otherwise a bit thicker near the business end, and after
accumulating a dozen of each, I returned to the bench.

The
'still-stake' was especially helpful, as here I was able to insert
several rivets at a time until I came to the longitudinal seam.
There, I put in half a row of them and then 'soldered' them over the
nearest forge.

As I set
the rivets, I had an idea for a 'riveting' hammer, one with a special
'cupped' head, and I drew it once I peened that group of rivets. The
drawing attracted an audience once I'd resumed inserting the rivets
for the main longitudinal seam.

“What
gives with this hammer drawing?” asked Gelbhaar.

“That one
will speed up the process of riveting,” I said. “It has a
pointed head, with a flat point on one end for starting the rivets,
and then a cupped one on the other end for forming them. It might be
quite tricky to use, and using it for fifteen-line rivets is out of
the question.”

“You do
not use those anyway,” he said, “at least for copperware. Now is
that a distillery?”

“The
first one, yes,” I said. “Those other things are...”

“That is
no distillery I've seen,” he said. “Those are much different.”

“And much
harder to make, prone to leaking, hard to clean, and the cap commonly
plugs up with mash,” I said. “This one is intended to rectify
all of those problems, and rectify another one that I've seen and no
one else mentioned.”

“What is
that?” asked Gelbhaar.

“The
common type takes three or four runs to make aquavit,” I said.
“This one should – at least, I hope it should – do it in
one.”

“What?”
said Georg. “Aquavit in one run?”

“I hope
so,” I said. “It might take two, but I doubt it will take
three or four. Then, this cap should seal up a lot better than those
leak-prone things I've seen. That causes a lot of fires.”

I paused,
then said, “do we have tubing for the, uh, condenser?”

“Yes, in
those boxes,” said Georg. “I ordered eight bundles of
twenty-line tubing, which is the most common size, supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”
I asked.

“That
size is made commonly for that purpose,” said Georg, “and getting
other sizes of tubing is not merely difficult, but costly and
time-consuming.”

“Are
condensers sometimes called worms?” I asked.

“They
are, but not by people I wish to be around,” said Georg. “I've
heard that term is supposedly used by those that make brandy.”

“What
kind of brandy?” I asked. “Hans spoke of three different types.”

“Those
people do not make the kind tailors use,” said Georg. “I ordered
some of that, also, and I'm still looking for it.”

“Was this
brandy called tailor's antiseptic?” I asked.

“I asked
specifically for that,” said Georg. “After that one hot-rivet
burning you on the back of your neck, I've been wanting that stuff a
lot more.”

“Burns
are helped by it?” I asked.

“The
smaller and more common ones, yes,” said Georg. “I've been
wondering if there were special rivet-holding tongs, as rivets
escaping like that are not rare.”

“Especially
when boys are holding those things,” said Johannes. “I doubt
that was like most times though, as mostly escaped rivets drop to the
floor.”

“You mean
he threw that thing at me deliberately and made it look like an
accident?” I spluttered.

“No, it
was not that,” said Johannes. “I do not know what it was, but I
doubt it was that kind of deliberate.”

“Uh,
why?” I asked.

“I could
see someone like Hieronymus doing that,” said Johannes, “but I
have trouble seeing an apprentice tossing a rivet and making it look
like an accident. Tongs are not that good for throwing things,
especially the ones that have the old type of hinge. Those you've
done work much freer and grip better.”

“Especially
those two with the small grooves near the tip,” said Gelbhaar.
“What are those for?”

“That
type is for handling rivets,” said Georg. “I took one with me
last rest-day so as to ask about it, and not only did someone speak
of them that way, but also wished ones like them.”

Checking
the 'twenty-line' tubing showed that it was fairly even, with its
'coil' such that merely pulling the stuff apart carefully and bending
it in the right places made for a fair condenser. I suspected one
wanted to solder copper pieces on the inside to add 'rigidity' and
assist with cooling, and after fitting four such pieces to the coil,
I looked around.

The others
had all gone home, and it was time to light my lantern again.

After a
short time, though, I knew it was time to head home. I had thimbles
to make, fittings to figure out, and possibly other things, and when
I came in the door, the aroma – sweet, slightly 'syrupy', and more
than a little reminiscent of corn-meal – was something I wondered
about. Hans spoke of it at the table during the latter half of
dinner.

“That
mash is working,” he said, “and I have covered it up with a clean
cloth and a lid.”

“Mash?”
I asked.

“Yes,
corn-mash,” said Hans. “I had started the corn sprouting about
two days ago, and I ground it up good in that grinder. I think we
might want to use that thing for beer, as it was a lot faster than
the usual way with two stones.”

“Would it
work for beer?” I asked.

“I think
so,” said Hans. “I put some malt in afterward, and it mashed
that stuff up good too.”

“Did you
clean it?” I asked.

“That and
wiped it off as good as I could,” said Hans. “I had to take off
that hopper thing so as to get at those rollers, and I could not
figure out how to put it back on, so I put the whole thing aside for
you.”

“I hope
you didn't lose those screws,” I said. “Those were not easy to
make.”

“He
didn't,” said Anna, “even if he had to use one of your turnscrews
to remove it. It took him a while to find the right one.”

“R-right
one?” I asked.

“It needs
to be the same width as the screw,” said Anna, “and it must fit
properly in the slot. I've watched how you use those, and I told him
that was important. He would have used the first one he laid his
eyes on otherwise.”

“Properly?”
I asked.

“Yes,”
said Anna. “I asked about those recently, and I was told they
needed to be fairly tight. That's especially important with the
usual types of screws, as they are so soft. Yours aren't.”

“Who did
you ask, though?” I asked.

“A
jeweler,” she said. “They both especially like those carving
tools you did for them.”

When I
began filing on the chisels that evening, I had questions to answer.

“What are
those?” asked Anna.

“Woodcarving
chisels,” I said. “I made enough for what might be two full
sets, or at least, I hope they'll be two full sets. One set will go
to that man Hans spoke of.”

I paused,
then asked, “no descriptions of what was wanted, no drawings, not
even questions?”

“I'm not
surprised,” said Anna. “With bought tools, one must use what can
be had as a rule.”

“Was that
man thinking I was a witch?” I asked.

“I am not
sure,” said Anna. “If this is who I am thinking of, I would
wonder, as he's not afraid to try new things.”

“And most
people tend to be?” I asked.

“Some are
more that way than others,” said Anna. “The ones I've seen that
are most disinclined to try anything new act like witches.”

“And
those people that wanted to pack cheese in that one man's wound?” I
asked.

“I'm
really unsure about people like them,” said Anna. “They tend to
be very set in their ways...”

Anna
stopped for a moment. She seemed to be thinking.

“Meaning
they aren't particularly inclined to think much,” I said. “Do
such people tend to follow orders 'because they are orders'? Because
someone 'in authority' said so?”

“Most
people are that way,” said Hans. “That is one place where few
think much, especially when the person speaking is someone with a lot
of money or power.”

“Someone
wearing black-cloth, a box-hat, pointed boots, and riding in a
coach?” I asked.

“A lot of
people listen to them as much or more as they do preachers,” said
Hans. “That is not right, but they do.”

I
managed to file all of the chisels that night, and 'temporarily'
hardened them using the heating lamp so as to try them out. I found
that several of them needed thinning when I tried using them in
places on the 'sculpture' of Black-Cap's trigger-guard.

“I'm glad
mine isn't nearly that hard to do,” I thought, as I scooped out
more wood so as to thin the pattern. Black-Cap's pattern would need
to be a trifle thicker, or so I guessed. Mine would most likely show
how thin I could run bronze and expect it to flow properly.

“I wonder
if he wants sling-swivels,” I thought. “I know I want some for
mine.”

The lack of
such 'furniture' on weapons I'd seen here, as well as their lack of
aiming equipment, made for not merely clarifying my drawings, but
also planning for their construction during the coming weekend.
Before I progressed much further on such things, however, I needed to
first finish the distillery and carving tools.

The chisels
finished the next day, and when I handed Hans a bag of six
'awl-handled' carving tools, he wondered what I had given him.

“Open the
bag and tell me if they are 'good wood chisels',” I asked. “I've
still got some work on that distillery yet, though I'm close to
finishing it.”

“That is
fine,” said Hans as he untied my clumsy knot and loosened the
strings. “I thought you were practicing on these things.”

“The
knots or the chisels?” I asked.

“Your
knots are not getting much better,” he said. “You may want to
have others tie them for you, if that is the way you are.”

Hans then
withdrew one of the chisels. The resemblance to my latest awls was
remarkable if one ignored the sharp end of the thing.

“Why is
it you did them this way?” he asked.

“I had no
idea as to what was wanted,” I said, “so I made two sets, one
being for my own use, and I needed ones for working on patterns for
Black-Cap's weapon – that, and patterns in general. I know enough
about gunstocks to know the two types of work can be quite similar.”

“These
are not like anything I have seen,” said Hans. “Most wood
chisels are a lot bigger.”

“Do they
have huge handles of bad wood that need hands a lot bigger than mine
to hold them?” I asked.

Hans nodded
soberly, then said, “the ones from the fourth kingdom are usually
like that for size and shape, if not much else.”

I shook my
head as if to ward off an attack of nausea, then said, “why do they
make the handles so big? Do they intend them to be customized by
their users, or is there some other reason? Do people even manage
with them otherwise?”

Hans had no
answer, at least until I showed him how the chisels actually worked.
He then needed a stool and two mugs of beer, one right after the
other.

“This is
what I'm talking about,” I said, as I carefully shaved off chips
from the pattern. “I need to cut with and across the grain without
splintering it, I need to carefully control the depth and direction
of cut, and in most cases, I need to make very small cuts so as to
get the needed detail. This thing isn't going to permit easy
cleaning once I cast it, at least in the areas I'm working on now.”

“I think
that thing was engraved by a jeweler somewhere,” said Hans. “I'm
surprised you have tried copying it.”

“I'm
surprised I'm managing as well as I am,” I said. “Now do you see
why I made those tools that way? Even for common gunstocks, they
need work of a similar nature so as to fit the lockwork and trigger
guard, and then inlet the barrel.”

I paused,
then muttered, “and that spokeshave is enough to drive me to tears
the way it's aggravating me.”

“Why is
that?” asked Hans.

“I think
the angle is wrong on the bit,” I said. “Then, the bit's of
poorer than common steel, at least for what I've received. It's
about as hard as a full-polish wrench, or perhaps slightly
harder.”

“Yes, and
you no longer have those,” said Hans. “I have seen those things,
and they are all those shades of gray.”

“And
deburred,” I said. “And cleaned up all over, as their shapes
were, uh, awkward in places. And their openings evened up, sized
correctly, and in some instances, made properly parallel, so they'd
actually stay on the nuts when I used them. And then, finally
marked as to their proper size prior to heat-treating. I had to make
a new smallest wrench from scratch, as cleaning them enlarged them to
the next largest size.”

“Those
things were not marked that way,” said Hans. “How is it you
marked them?”

“With the
stamps, once I cleaned them up and properly hardened them,” I said.
“They were a good deal harder than those wrenches were, but not
hard enough to suit me.”

I finished
the still about lunchtime of the next day, and took a portion of my
lunch period to take the thing home piecemeal. It needed three
trips, as the condenser was a bit fragile, and the rectifying
column's internal pieces tended to rattle slightly. The snow had
grown roughly an inch deeper, and the cold, but slightly greater.
The hours of light were such that I commonly arrived at the shop two
hours before dawn, and stayed an hour or more after true sundown, and
then went home for my 'homework'.

I was still
plotting the duplication of the student's lantern. Georg was having
no luck trying to locate others like it, and travel in the area 'was
not happening'. I hadn't seen any buggies, no 'sleds', and but few
slow and unsteady riders on horseback, so I found his statement
believable.

However,
Georg's hay-pile was still sizable and varying in size, so hay
deliveries were continuing. I suspected I either wasn't
looking for such tracks, or the arrival and return of those
delivering the stuff was happening during the hours of darkness.

Once I had
returned to work after my three deliveries, however, I had to answer
questions as to what I had taken home.

“Do any
of you know how to run a still?” I asked in response.

The
head-shakes of 'no' were all I received as answers from the others.

“Turning
loose a 'strange-looking' still – strange-looking for this area, as
Anna has seen my drawings for the thing and she said fourth-kingdom
stills look like what I made – without testing it to make certain
it works as intended strikes me as unwise,” I said. “Hence, it
needs testing and perhaps correction before I make more of them.”

“But
won't you make the usual type?” asked Georg.

“After
asking two people who run them regularly as to what those are like?”
I squeaked. “Georg, those things remind me of idols, and them
being marked like they were didn't help much.”

“How were
they marked?” asked Johannes.

“With a
curse like those lanterns had,” I said. “It was not the same
one, but it had similar figures on it, and many people believe...”

I ceased
speaking abruptly, as I now saw the truth of what was commonly
believed. The rune-marked curse was not believed to
facilitate distillation, nor did it indicate 'quality'.

It – and
it alone – was believed to make the strange-looking
'sculpture' actually work.

Proper
heat-control, cleanliness, correct filling levels, cooling the
condenser, mash constituents and fermentation – none of that
was thought to matter by most users of stills. The only things that
actually mattered to the majority of people were the
following:

The shape,
size, and color of the still were crucial, as befitting an idol.

The
markings. Those had to be the right shape, the correct size, and in
the proper locations, just like the distilling-curse.

The fire.
It had to be properly-prepared wood of the right type, and burning in
a proper furnace.

And
finally, the chants used. The chants affected the flavor, color, and
strength of the resulting beverage, unlike what went in the
mash-tubs, or other common-sense matters.

“And what
kind of chants do non-witches chant at stills?” I thought. “Come,
Geneva, Come? How dry I am, and how wet I'll be? O little brown
jug?”

“What do
people believe about stills?” asked Georg.

“Do most
people talk to their stills?” I asked. “Do, they uh, chant like
Hieronymus did?”

“That I
can speak of,” said Gelbhaar. “I've heard it is best to sing
while running a distillery, or speak portions of the book. It is
said to help prevent those things from starting fires.”

“So
that's what they chant, then,” I thought. “They would do
better by saying 'Come, Geneva, Come'.”

While the
origin of that particular 'chant' was from backwoods butter-making
with a hand churn, with 'butter' substituted for Geneva – the same
basic idea was involved, only to a far greater degree. 'Come
Butter Come' was mostly a means to ensure the proper rhythm of the
paddle when churning buttermilk to make butter. It wasn't a
requirement to get a usable outcome.

Chanting at
one's still was.

I stayed
after honing the 'guesstimate' mandrel I would need for
barrel-forging, then once home with jug, bag, and lantern, I put them
aside and found clean clothing so as to bathe.

The
bathroom now had its share of clothes hanging from the ceiling to the
other side of the door, and under them, I saw a copper-rimmed tub.
That, most likely, had clothing soaking, and a brief glance at the
tub as my water heated under the latest heating lamp showed my
assessment to be correct.

The warmth
of the bathroom – not as warm as the kitchen, but not much less –
was such that I felt comfortable while bathing, and I wondered for a
moment how I would make it to that one location tomorrow. The road
through town had two inches of 'fresh' snow easily, and under the
new-fallen powder, the stuff had compacted enough to make for
slippery going. I wondered if there were snowshoes to be had, and
wondered more about the trip itself.

I came out
of the bathroom fully dressed save for my shoes, which remained in
front of the bathroom's stone oven so as to dry partly. I had
noticed both Hans and Anna periodically putting their shoes next to
the kitchen stove.

“I think
I had best make a folding shoe-rack, then,” I thought. “Perhaps
after Black-Cap's weapon is completed.”

At dinner,
the talk was of the mash and its steady boiling fermentation, and
after dinner, Hans asked, “how is that distillery coming?”

“It's
done,” I said. “It will need careful cleaning before we use it,
and I can explain how the various pieces work when we do that.”

“I hope
it's easy to clean,” said Anna. “Most of those things are nearly
impossible that way.”

“This one
is intended to be,” I said. “The cooker has wooden handles on
it, so no burns when needing to handle it while hot, it has a drain,
the top of the thing has a wide seating surface, and the condenser is
well-protected, with its own stand. We could actually run the thing
on the stove.”

“How is
that?” asked Hans. “Those usually need a special firebox.”

“A
firebox stoked with sizable pieces of well-seasoned hardwood, with
the wood chosen carefully and cut with the correct tool,” I said.
“Do people speak from the book when running a distillation?”

“Paul
does not,” said Hans, “though he might pray sometimes when doing
his first run, as that is the most dangerous one with the common
stills. I am not sure what Korn does.”

“I had
some impressions about the common distilleries,” I said, “and
what most people believe about them is quite strange – at least,
it's quite strange if you aren't a witch.”

“What do
people believe?” asked Anna.

“The only
things that are important about distilling are the shape, size,
color, and markings of the distillery itself, the use of the correct
fuel and furnace, and what is said while working on or around the
still,” I said. “Nothing – and I do mean nothing –
else matters.”

“Did you
speak of cutting wood for fuel?” asked Anna.

“Not
merely cut, but chosen carefully, much as carpenter's hammer-handles
are, and prepared in much the same fashion,” I said. “I'm not
certain if most go to that much trouble about fuel, but I do
know most people insist that distilleries be fueled with
wood.”

“That is
so,” said Hans, “as even...”

“Do they
do that because 'wood' is the correct fuel,” I said, “or
because it's convenient and easily acquired with minimal time
expended? That's really important when you run as much mash
as Paul does, or when you are as busy as Korn commonly is.”

I paused,
then said, “besides, neither Paul nor Korn has the correct shape or
arrangement of furnace.”

“What is
it, then?” asked Hans.

“The
chimney must be tall, slightly tapered, and laid of bricks,” I
said, “with a support-pillar in the fire-bowl to support the weight
of the still proper. The stoke-hole has no door, and is oval-shaped,
with painted reddish teeth to signify the hunger of the flames...”

I stopped,
then screeched, “what am I saying?”

“I think
you said something about what people actually believe about those
things, or at least what some believe,” said Hans. “I want no
part of doing stuff like a witch.”

Hans
paused, then said, “and I think your idea of using the stove sounds
likely, as that will keep the mess down.”

“That,
and make digestive remedies and fuel easier to prepare,” I said.
“We don't have a dedicated still-house, and that's also thought to
be a requirement according to what most people believe.”

Hans looked
at me, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then said, “yes, and I
think you might be right about that stuff. I never saw it before,
but I think you are right.”

“If so,
then we must chant over the mash, and then circle around the still
while chanting,” I muttered. “Like this: 'how dry I am, how wet
I'll be, If I don't find the bathroom's key'.”

“There
are no keys to that room,” said Hans, “so why do you speak of
one?”

“It's
supposed to be a joke,” I said. “At least, that silly 'chant'
is. I wish I could say that for the other stuff, as some people
really do chant over the mash and circle around the still
while chanting at it, and they actually do all of the other stuff,
also.”

“Nothing
like that,” said Hans. “If you have one and make Geneva, then
they like to taste your jugs during Festival Week.”

“When
will the mash be ready?” I asked.

“It might
take another day or two,” said Hans. “It is going good now, and
that means it needs to run more.”

“Tomorrow
evening?” I asked. “Sunday after church?”

“Either
of those is likely,” said Hans, “though Sunday sounds more likely
than tomorrow night.”

Prior to
actually retiring, however, I thought to investigate the mash itself.
Hans was putting out the candles downstairs, and as I moved to where
the tub was sitting, I could hear plainly the bubbling and hissing of
a sizable tub, as well as smell the fermentation. It smelled like a
very sour version of beer, so much so that I asked softly, “is it
common to reuse the water from distillation?”

“That is
best if you are going to make Geneva,” said Hans, “though for
aquavit, it does not matter. This first batch is best done for
aquavit.”

“Should
we make a jug or two of Geneva, though?” I asked.

“I think
that a good idea, especially for Festival Week,” said Hans.
“Indigestion is more common during the winter.”

Hans paused
as he collected up the last two candles, then said, “so, if we make
that stuff, then I need to make a trip out toward that one
second-hand store tomorrow.”

“To get
the, uh, berries?” I asked.

“The best
place for those is a greengrocers in a town that is close to where
that place is,” said Hans. “I can drive you most of the way
there, and then pick you up on the way back, so you are not walking
too long in that snow.”

Hans proved
as good as his word, and I was let out about a mile and a half down
the road from the place when he went to the left and I was to
continue straight. I had one of the water bottles I had made, a bag
of dried meat, and another small cloth bag having the ammunition for
the revolver. I was really wondering about some kind of a holster
for the thing now, as it was cumbersome in the pocket.

That, and I
needed to hike up my trousers now and then with all I had.

As I walked
by the side of the road in the 'powder' stuff, I was glad I had
'partial' hobnails. Unlike 'full' hobnails, which covered the
entirety of the sole, 'partial' hobnails went around the periphery of
the sole and heel. They tended to be easier on the feet and gave
nearly as good traction, especially in ice and snow. Only in the
very worst conditions was there a noticeable difference.

While the
snow muffled my walking, and the light-tan color of my cloak did a
passable job of hiding my figure when not moving, I now realized the
snow also hampered the movement and feeding of game. For some
reason, within five minutes of setting off down the road, I had seen
my first 'winter' deer, complete with fluffed-out white-dusted coat.

'The best
food' seemed uncommonly concentrated, as within another twenty
minutes, I saw another five deer, two stub-horned elk, and what might
have been a marmot. The last seemed more furtive than usual for
marmots, or so I guessed.

The town
proper hove into view another ten minutes later, and here, I saw my
first 'sled', with two horses on long traces in front and the
buggy-box thing behind on long and slender copper-sheathed rails.

Hans had not
exaggerated the speed of sleds, for the thing went whizzing by me at
an easy ten miles an hour, until it was time to 'stop' for another
delivery.

I stopped
by the sled to look at it more closely when the driver returned. He
seemed preoccupied, at least until he saw I was looking more closely
at his vehicle than at his cargo.

“I'm the
greengrocer,” he said. “I've got some deliveries here and in the
next two towns.”

“Do you
commonly do that?” I asked. My curiosity was genuine.

“Most
don't do that, but I do,” he said. “A fair number of people
around here were hurt years ago during a big raid, and they don't get
around as easy as they used to.”

“Knees?”
I asked. I recalled Tam as I said that, and my knees began
hurting.

“Those
and other injuries caused by swine and those northern people,” he
said, as he made some notes and made ready to travel again on his
sled. “One of those I see can only have beer.”

“What
happened?” I asked.

“He was
lucky he lived,” said the man. “Most people die when they're cut
open like that.”

Once at the
store and let inside, I followed a young girl down to the 'rear'
area, where I paid the balance of the money for my soap. However, as
I did, the proprietress spoke of another type, and when she fetched
it, I longed for it greatly. This time, I knew not merely the smell
– roses – but also, the name of the flowers used.

“This one
is even more special,” she said. “I was told to reserve it for
you.”

“By
whom?” I asked.

“Albrecht
came by with some small trinkets, and picked up some things I'd
gotten for him, including a few letters,” she said. “He also
spoke briefly, and gave me this. He said you'd already paid for it,
so I only need the little bit I need for storing it.”

“That
amount is?”

“For
things like this, and this size, the amount is usually a guilder.
Given how I've had no takers for the other soap, and you're with
Hans, I'll just let you have it.”

After
bagging the two tins, I left her a large silver piece just the same.
I had the impression she needed it – and, as I suspected she would
be, she was grateful.

“Especially
right now,” she said. “I hope Hans comes by with more of the
widow's tincture soon.”

After
bidding her 'good day' – I felt as if I'd done horribly, even
though I was as sincere as I knew how to be – I took my leave. I'd
wished I had a vial of the stuff to give her, as I suspected she
needed it badly.

“Given
she's probably a widow, she most likely does need it,” I
thought.

My trip
back meant following my trail inbound, and when I came to where I was
let off by Hans, I suspected I had a certain wait to endure.
Thankfully, I did not have to wait long; Hans came rolling and
sliding up not ten minutes after I got there. I hopped on as he slid
by me, then put the bag of soap between us.

“Do you
give that woman some of that widow's tincture?” I asked.

“Yes, and
she is about due for more,” said Hans. “If she shows at church
tomorrow, I will give her some more, otherwise one of us will need to
take it to her on Monday. Why, did she ask about it?”

I nodded,
then said, “it seems Albrecht comes by there sometimes, and he left
something for me.”

“Yes, and
what was it?” asked Hans.

“Soap,
though of a different kind,” I said. “It smelled even more
delightful than that stuff I showed Anna last week. Now, if there
was only someone...”

“Yes,
some person,” asked Hans. “Who would this person be like?”

“S-short,
dark-haired, frolicsome, independent turn of mind...”

I gasped,
then said, “what am I saying?”

“I think
Anna might know someone like that,” said Hans. “I've only seen a
few people with hair like yours.”

“Anna
said she only saw but one other person,” I said.

“I think
she meant in this area,” said Hans. “Dark hair is a bit more
common to the south.”

Once home,
and the supplies put away – Hans had two sizable crocks, and two
yet more sizable bags, all of which needed to go in the basement –
I thought to clean out the still and its parts. I brought those
still in their bags to the table, and then began 'unwrapping' them.
The first one unwrapped was the cooker.

Anna came
from the upstairs with a large and bulging cloth bag, which she sat
down preparatory to fetching a stool. I had the impression she was
about to commence knitting, and only when she'd knit for three
minutes and tied her finger up with the yarn did she look up and see
what I was unveiling.

“What is
that?” she asked. Her knitting was utterly forgotten.

“The
cooker, dear,” I said. “It needs cleaning before we put any mash
in it. Now how are stills commonly cleaned?”

“Hot
water,” she said. “That one looks like it will fit on the
stove.”

“I
intended it to,” I said. “Perhaps fill it part-full and set it
over an eye?”

That part
went surprisingly easily, and Anna returned to her knitting. I
watched her for a short time, even while she did her usual 'knit one,
purl two, knit one, entangle finger in yarn' trick twice in the space
of three minutes. I then fetched the cap and rectifying column, and
began taking it apart.

The cap was
separate from the column, and inside the column, there were nine
stripper plates. There was room for several more, but I hoped to not
need them. They weren't the easiest things to make.

As I
removed the stripper plates themselves from the column, I could tell
Anna was becoming frustrated with her knitting. She'd already
entangled herself more in ten minutes than she usually did during an
entire session, and an eruption would ensue shortly.

I had
picked the time well, even if I was far off with the magnitude: Anna
abruptly stuffed her yarn, her project, and needles into the sack,
and then shoved it toward the middle of the table. She then looked
up and 'saw' what I was arranging.

“What is
that?” she asked.

“This is
the rectifying column,” I said. “Remember the drawing? This is
the first one.”

“N-no
long skinny tube that gets plugged up all the time?” she asked.

I turned
over the cap, then pointed out the screen and its tinned wire
retainer.

“It will
take some real doing to plug this one up,” I said. “That design
of cooker tends to funnel mash-eruptions into that, uh, arm, unlike
this one. Now, let me fetch the condenser, and we can clean this
thing up. The cooker is beginning to steam.”

Cleaning
the parts proved especially easy: dunk stripper plates, lay out to
dry, wipe out the column tube with a damp rag, pour hot water though
the condenser, and then dump the hot water in the cooker itself into
a pot before wiping it out. I then showed Anna how it went together,
complete with the latches.

“I'm glad
I have plenty of rye flour for the joints of that thing,” said
Anna. “That one looks a lot easier to paste up than any still I've
ever seen.”

“That,
and it needs much less 'pasting', also,” I said. “You should
only need a little bit for the upper cap, and but slightly more for
the lower cap. Why don't you call Hans, and you can describe it.”

Anna went
downstairs, and came up with Hans a minute later. He was wondering
why she had done so until she showed him what we had just cleaned.

“That
thing is...”

Hans had
lost the use of his tongue, and for the next three minutes, all he
could do was look at the thing with agog eyes and speechless lips.
Anna described what was inside the rectifying column, then removed
both column and cap to show the interior of the cooker, then finally
latched it back in place and screwed on the condenser after adjusting
its column stand.

“That
thing is... What is it?” asked Hans. “It is not like anything I
have ever seen. Not even the fourth kingdom ones are like this.”

“But Anna
said it was like them,” I said.

“Those
are not done this good,” said Hans, “nor do they have handles,
nor latches for their caps, nor that big tall thing, nor are their
condensers done with strips of metal like that.”

“Running
water isn't common around here,” I said dryly, “so I couldn't
make a Liebig condenser. The usual coils make this type quite
easily, and if one puts a few strengthening fins, they become
sturdier and more efficient.”

I paused,
then said, “how is the mash?”

“That can
run later today,” said Hans. “It still has a way to go,
according to this thing I use.”

“A
hygrometer?” I asked.

“I am not
sure what it is called,” said Hans, “only that we found it in
that one place with the rats, and the instructions speak of specific
gravity. Corn mash is done when it is dropped two whole lines from
when it is just seeded with yeast, and it is not quite there.”

“Does it
drop further?” I asked.

“I did a
few smaller batches earlier and that is a good drop,” said Hans.
“The stuff starts to smell shortly thereafter, so corn-mash needs
to run as soon as it is ready to go.”

“Smell?”
I asked.

“It gets
really stinky,” said Hans, “and then the bugs start to show.”

“Bugs?”
I asked.

“They
smell worse than mash that has gone bad,” said Hans, “and Anna is
not fond of the bugs.”

The time
for the mash, however, was sooner than Hans had expected, for he had
checked it just prior to dinner. I'd been finishing up the mould for
revolver bullets as a break from carving patterns, and all that
remained was 'adjusting' it for proper closure.

“The mash
is ready,” said Hans, “so we will need to run that stuff on the
stove once Anna has cleaned up after dinner.”

“I've
never run a distillery before, Hans,” said Anna. “I've made the
rye paste before, but never run a still.”

“This one
should be a bit easier,” I said. “If you noticed carefully,
there is a small hole where one normally puts a thermometer.”

“Is that
where that one cork is in the top part?” asked Anna.

“Yes, it
is, and we have several of them from that dark place with the rats,”
I said. “I've even fitted one to a cork and tested it for fit.”

I paused,
then said, “do we have several, uh, jugs for the aquavit?”

“I have
set those things aside,” said Hans. “I also looked up
distilleries in one of those chemical books, and they show what you
did. Now did you look it up in those books?”

“I had
heard of this type before coming here,” I said. “I just hope it
works.”

'Loading'
the still took two mostly full cooking pots full of mash, and I put
the cooker on the stove. Hans helped me with the cap, while Anna
'painted' on the rye paste. Hans was surprised when the bulk of the
paste squirted out.

“That is
a tight one,” he said. “I hope it holds good.”

The rest of
the still was assembled but minutes later, and when Hans came with
the funnel, I was surprised to learn he'd remembered the charcoal.

“No,
Hans, we do not need black aquavit,” said Anna.

“I washed
this stuff good,” said Hans, “and I think Korn uses this with
what he does.”

“Hence no
nasty off-taste,” I said. “It should make better tinctures,
also.”

As the
temperature climbed on the thermometer, I wondered when the 'still'
would begin to produce its first drips. I felt the cooker, the
column, and then the condenser, and as I did, I began to notice an
odor of such frightful intensity I nearly spewed.

“Gah!
What is that stink!” I squeaked, as I gently touched my burning
nose.

“I think
it is starting to make the stuff,” said Hans. “This is not at
all usual for a first run.”

“No,
Hans,” said Anna. “I think it is making aquavit. See, it's
starting to drop into that charcoal there.”

Hans used a
spoon, then caught what looked like a steady colorless trickle that
twisted as it came from the condenser. I watched the thermometer,
which seemed to be holding steady.

“How much
mash do we have?” I asked.

“Enough
for two more runs,” said Hans. “I think each run will fill a
smaller jug. Now I need to test this stuff to see its strength.”

I wondered
for a moment how Hans would do so, but he left for the basement after
touching his finger to the liquid and tasting it. I wondered how he
could stand 'potable paint remover', at least until he came back up a
few minutes later. He was muttering something that I could not
understand.

“That is
the strongest aquavit I have ever seen,” said Hans. “It must be
nearly pure alcohol, as I had to cut it with nearly its entire volume
of water before it would not burn.”

“It can't
be,” I spluttered. “That is just the first one, and it has
to have something wrong with it.”

“I doubt
it has much,” said Hans. “I think you might think about making
more of these things after Festival Week, as I know Paul will toss
what he has when he finds out about this one, and the same for Korn.”

After the
still finished – the condenser 'dried up', as Hans put it, and the
once-steady temperature began to rise – we needed to empty the
thing out carefully. In this instance, Hans wanted the residue in a
collection of buckets, and when we had brought them down into the
basement, he covered them carefully with clean rags.

“What do
you plan to do with this, uh, used stuff?”

“First,
there is a special flavoring in yeast,” said Hans. “It is called
yeast-spread, and it looks a little like fourth-kingdom axle grease.
It goes good on bread, but one must be careful with it, especially
during Festival Week.”

“Why?”
I asked.

“The
stuff goes in one night,” said Hans. “It is sad to see something
that takes that long to make up go that quickly, at least if one is
limited to beer for its source. Now that we have corn-mash, I can
actually make a decent amount of it.”

“And
afterward?” I asked.

“Then,
one cooks the mash some over a slow fire, such that it is dried
good,” said Hans, “and then it is good for mixing with
horse-grain. One must be careful, though.”

“Uh,
why?” I asked. “Drunken horses?”

“Cooking
it drives off that trouble,” said Hans. “Horses given too much
of that type of grain can become frisky, or so people say. I think
that is rubbish, especially when it is cold, but just the same, I do
not want to be near a horse that thinks itself a mule.”